Blood to Dust

I didn’t even realize I was staring. But I am.

I shake my head, and my weird mood, then throw Stella into drive.

“Just make sure my fifty grand is ready by next week. I’m planning around it.” My tone lashes against her face.

We spend our journey to Hussein, her Iranian car dealer, in unwinding silence. It gives me time to think about what I’ve done. The parole officer will be knocking on my door sooner or later, and Irv is going to tell him the truth. That I ran away. By then, I’ll need to be at least out of the state, if not the country.

But no one promises me that I will be.

I break the silence. “How long will it take your guy to produce the passports?” Prescott’s face twitches, her eyes still trained on the road.

“I’m hoping we’ll have them by tomorrow morning. It depends on when we get to Los Angeles today. We still need to take passport pictures and give them to him. Why? Jumping ship already?”

She’s trying to disguise her anxiety with a chuckle. She’s nervous, as she should be. It’s going to be hard to take down three grown, pissed-off, powerful men by herself. Prescott tried once, and we all know where that brought her.

“I have a week tops to f*ck around before the authorities hunt my ass down. Camden’s not in the states yet. And frankly?” I shoot her a look, partly to gauge a reaction from her, but mostly to linger on those lips. “He’s not my f*cking problem. I’m not gonna wait around for him. But we’ll take Godfrey and Seb together before I leave. That, I guarantee.”

Okay, *, now let’s try and figure out what made you say that.

Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that I’m not so *-whipped that I’ll kill someone I haven’t even met just for a girl.

We all have vices, and I’m starting to believe Pea’s mine.

Prescott (I still can’t believe I caved in and called her that. I also find it difficult to stomach the fact that this stupid name’s growing on me.) narrows her eyes into slits and takes out a stress ball, clasping it like it killed her puppy.

“Don’t worry. I want Camden all to myself. You were never a part of the plan.”

Touché.

I kill the engine in front of a one-story bungalow in Concord, and a tan guy in a blue robe holding a cup of coffee saunters casually through the door.

Now that the sun is almost up, the clean morning air sweeps through my nostrils and the reality of what we’re doing sinks in. I drink Hussein in. He’s got a week’s worth of stubble on his face and a head full of black hair. When he opens his mouth, a thick accent accompanies his words.

“Prescott, you little troublemaker, how’ve you been?”

Pea unbuckles and jumps out of the truck, slamming the door in my face. On purpose, of course. She walks to his spot on the yellow grass and shoves her hands into her leather jacket.

Man, she’s got a great ass.

Focus, idiot.

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” she says a little louder than necessary, making sure I’m within earshot. “Hey, Huss, I need a favor.”

“You mean, another favor,” he enunciates, taking a slow sip from his coffee. “I’m listening.”

“I need to trade this Tacoma for another car. Preferably something with an out-of-state license plate. Something fast, but not flashy.”

I jump out of Stella and shut the door behind me, walking toward her. She doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge my presence, let alone introduce me to the guy.

“Why don’t we change the license plate? We don’t need to replace the whole f*cking vehicle.” I rage. “I can’t part ways with Stella yet.”

She spins slowly, her face still blank.

“Stella?” she repeats, tilting her chin down as she inspects me. “Think again. Your truck looks more like a Gladys. Stella is a hot girl’s name.”

I stare her down through a hooded gaze, but this time, she doesn’t budge. “And to answer your question—do you really want to run away from the baddies with your signature tinted-windowed, red Tacoma? I mean, it’s a good idea, but you might want to just walk straight into Godfrey’s office, unzip, place your balls on his desk and give him the hammer to smash them with.”

I offer her a long, middle finger, but she’s got a point. Hussein behind her chuckles into his mug.

“You guys are cute.”

“Shut up,” we both say in unison, still staring each other down. I really want to kill her, and really, really want to hit that shit. I’m not going to lie, though, part of her charm is the fact that she’s fearless, no matter my size and track record, even though she’s been burned by men before.

Tough cookie, but delicious all the same.

“This truck’s in good condition,” I grit. “Whatever’s left from the trade ends up in my pocket.”

“Fine,” she shrugs, turning her attention back to Hussein, who is grinning from ear to ear, still planted on his front lawn. His unkempt grass is the opposite of Mrs. Hathaway’s lush, green one. It reminds me that on a normal day, I would’ve hit the road by now on my way to her house to avoid traffic. It’s not like me to not show up. I’ve never taken a sick day in my life. But I won’t risk my neck in the name of etiquette. After all—Godfrey hooked me up with the job. I’ve no idea how tight he is with Stan Hathaway and how far his accountant is willing to go for him.